


Building With the Bones of Kings

by Arcturox



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dark Fantasy, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcturox/pseuds/Arcturox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one human directly takes the life of another, a piece of their soul is forfeit. Without the soul, humans shift and change into something lesser and depraved. From murder and mistakes a human being is transformed into a pitiless beast, bent on the creation of more death. There are few who can counteract these creatures. None but the Kings can take a life while keeping their souls intact, and so the duty of slaying these abominations falls to them. When a group begins to target these Kings, concern rises that the world will lose its only protectors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“Existence is a privilege of the living

My mother spoke those words to me when I first was witness to a death in our family. At the funeral I wondered to her what came after death.  
“Nothing.” she replied. “Existence is a privilege of the living, and we must strive every day to not take that for granted.”  
Those words have followed me, haunted each step I have taken as I aged. At first they bred depressing thoughts - ideas of a great infinite abyss stretching on forever waiting for me upon my death. In time I learned these thoughts were childish. The absence of life was not an infinite darkness, it was nonexistence. It is a thing none could comprehend nor understand, and this life is the only thing we can ever know. It is my greatest and only treasure.”

Fynbre Galder, The Ragged King

  
Blood soaked the cooling mud as a fall breeze swept over the fields of Aizl. A long broadsword shifted beneath the gloved hand of a figure cloaked in rags and mismatched plates of steel armor. Ahead of the figure’s gaze a man lay beneath his dead horse, struggling to free himself from the weight. As the Ragged King stepped closer, the trapped soldier began to plead.

“No, please sire! I beg of you!” his arm strained against the horse’s corpse, “I have served this realm all my life! I only killed a few men sire, stray arrows in battle, nothing more!”

The King stepped over the horse and pushed past the arms that tried to hold her back, putting her fingers on either side of the soldier's eye and forcing it open. The King’s haggard face stared deep into the man’s eyes. The soldier’s pupil and iris had begun to crack and fade to white, a sure sign of wraithdom. The lord of rags stood and took a firmer grip on her sword.

“Dunlan Liré, having directly taken the life of another, you have given a piece of your soul to the void. Your humanity is forfeit.”

“It wasn’t my fault, sire! Please, my offenses were accidents in combat! A simple-”

“It matters not, Liré. You have begun to wraith. There is no return for you.”

Dunlan continued to plead as the king positioned her sword. Her scarred face bowed and her cracked lips parted as she began the rights.

“My heart is steeled against the darkness. My blood is the fire that lights the world. If I am not justified in taking this life, strike me down and turn my body to ash.”

Her sword dropped into Dunlan Liré’s neck, severing his head from the body in a single strike. The Ragged King took a long breath of the autumn wind and stood in silence among the shifting grass.

Alone in the fields of Aizl, she waited for the divine retribution she knew would never come.


	2. The North

Mid-day of the 16th of Fall’s Turn, 1346: The northern fortress of Aidira

The snows this far north rarely melted. After each storm the parapets and courtyards were cleared, but snow had still built up so deeply on the stones of the walls, that the fortress appeared almost entirely white, speckled with small glimpses of the stone beneath. Near to the gate there was a stain that cascaded down the otherwise white walls. It was a deep bloody crimson, and on the ground by its end, a body lay contorted and frozen in the snow.

A cart approached the fortress’s gates. Around it weary soldiers stumbled forward. At the head of the column a man that stood two heads taller than the rest led them forward. He was cloaked in fur that was dyed purple long ago and had since faded into a near-grey. As he approached the gates, a horn blew from atop the walls and a soldier shouted down.

“Milord! We nearly sent parties for you! What’s happened in the wood?”

The King swung his arm to gesture at the corpse. “Never mind the wood, Genrick. What has happened in my home? Who laid the killing blow?”

“Yuri, sire.” Genrick replied solemnly.

The King nodded. “I shall see to him. Who were the attackers?”

“Five men two women, sire. They came last night and climbed the walls with grapples… several had snuck past our guard before Yuri happened across our unfortunate friend down there.” The soldier paused, “There were two hiding in your quarters, sire.”

The King sighed and looked back to those behind him. “Open the gates and stoke the fires. These rangers need soup and rest. Gather the commanders in the main hall and await my arrival.”

“At your word, sire.” Genrick disappeared behind a parapet and the gates began to swing sluggishly outward.

The Head-Taker King stepped into his courtyard, greeted by a familiar waft of woodsmoke and oil. The men of Aidira moved about the castle’s grounds quickly and efficiently. Each soldier moved to task even when not under their lord’s gaze. On most days this loyalty was the only thing that could put the Headsman King at ease, but it seemed the frozen piece he had carved from the north had been threatened, and until he knew his enemies he could not rest.

The main hall was dimly lit with wall sconces. The lights flickered across the thick stone walls, rippling with the wind as the King stepped through the oaken doors. The room and its tables were empty save for the ten commanders that stood in a semi-circle near the head of the room.

“Commanders.” The Headsman addressed his subordinates.

“Milord!” came a chorus of responses.

“Explain the attack. Run me through what was done in counter.”

The fortress commanders paused for a brief moment as silent glances were exchanged to decide who would speak first. A man with a shoulder patch emblazoned with a cutlass and twin crows stepped forward.

The King turned to him. “I recognize the Commander of the Blackwing, Vern Pakar. Speak”

“The attackers came at midnight, sire. They scaled our walls and infiltrated key points of the fortress. However, judging by their positions I would presume their target was you.”

The Headsman scanned the other commanders. “And you all agree with this assessment?”

The men nodded in near-perfect unison.

“Very well. Continue, commander.”

“Upon Yuri’s contact with the enemy we moved to sweep the fortress and prevent escape of the other assailants. There were seven in total. Yuri slew one and two opted to commit suicide to prevent capture. Three remain in holding within the cells.”

“Very good commander. Have you questioned them?”

“Aye, Milord. One mentioned a superior of some sort being displeased, but there’s been not a peep from them since.”

The Headsman pulled at the thick hairs of his beard. “I shall interrogate them thoroughly myself, but first we must attend to our own. Where is Yuri?”

“He awaits you in the yard, sire.”

The King drew a long breath “Good lad.”

The King’s boots tamped through the slush of the courtyard as he strode for its center. Ahead of him stood a soldier, a wide slab of stone, and an iron pedastal. Within the rusted iron sat a massive broadsword, nearly as tall and as wide as the soldier himself. As the Headsman approached, Yuri stood to attention and looked him dead in the eye. The Headsman saw immediately that the soldier’s eyes had begun to whiten.

“Do you not want your final meal, Yuri?”

“No, Milord.”

The King shook his head. “Your rank is now beyond your fellow soldiers. You may call me by my name.”

“As you wish, King Weskar.”

“Do you have any final requests? Any family to be notified of your death?”

Yuri tensed his fists to stop the shaking. “...None.”

Around them, the other soldiers gathered on the walls looking inward. As the Headsman drew his blade from its shrine, the gathering around them grew. By the time the King and Yuri stood ready to begin, nearly a thousand men and women encircled the executioner’s block.

“Are you ready, Yuri?”

“Always have been, my King.”

The army surrounding them raised their shields and began to knock their fists rhythmically against them. Yuri kneeled at the edge of the stone and lay his head across it. The Headsman bowed and began to chant.

“ **_My heart is steeled against the darkness._ ** ”

The bashing of shields was joined by a slowly building song. There were no words, but the voices of the defenders of Aidira joined as one for a slow solemn hymn.

“ **_My blood is the fire that lights the world._ ** ”

The sound of shields faded away as the song reached its apex. Yuri stared down into the slush as stalwart as he could manage, but he could feel his face beginning to tremble.

“ **_If I am not justified in taking this life, strike me down and turn my body to ash._ ** ”

 

* * *

 

  
  


The thick oaken door slammed against its frame and the King stepped into the room, his form blocking the hanging lantern and dousing the chamber in shadow. Two men and a woman were kneeled on the cold floor ahead of him, bound hand and foot and surrounded by the King’s men. Their clothes were thick and fortified against the cold. Their color was a ragged white with patches of grey, clearly meant to be camouflage against the snow. The would-be assassins briefly looked up to the King’s entrance but quickly turned their gazes back to the floor. King Weskar paced the room, pulled off his thick fur gloves a finger at a time and studying the prisoners at his feet. They seemed off somehow. Their presence disquieted him in a way he couldn’t quite describe, but they had information he needed, and if their twitching hands were any indicator, they were sufficiently terrified of him. The King turned to one of the guards.

“Which one spoke of their superior?”

The guard nodded his head at the man in the center. Weskar made a couple quick hand gestures and the guards suddenly grabbed him. The assassin’s eyes widened in abject horror as he was pulled from the room.

“No! NO! Please don’t kill me! NO!!!”

The screams of protest muffled as the door swung into its latch behind them, and Weskar was left in the room with the remaining two. The woman glared up at him and spat to the stone ground.

“Wither and die, _King_. A curse your house and your men.”

The King turned to the remaining guard, “Fetch me my sword.”

“Aye, Milord.”

The room dropped into silence as the guard left. Weskar removed his cloak and hung it on an iron spike that jutted from the wall. The loss of the thick cloak did surprisingly little to diminish the King’s figure. His arms were as thick as trees and his eyes burned blue from behind a thick head of black hair that stretched down into an equally thick beard. Blade scars criss-crossed along his hands and arms. The furs he dressed in beneath his cloak made him appear almost more animal than man. The prisoners shifted in their bonds, their eyes darting around the room.

“If you seek a means of escape, you will not find one.” Weskar spoke, his voice filling the small room with ease. “Your only avenue now is death. If you yearn for a swift one, you will tell me who sent you and why. Without that information, dying will be an unpleasant and long journey for you both.” He paused, waiting briefly for a response from either prisoner.

“... Very well.” He said, clenching a fist. He swung, long and arcing, turning his whole body into the blow. His fist connected with the head of the woman, sending her to the floor in an instant. The crack of the blow mixed with that of her bones. On the floor she sputtered and coughed as a few teeth spilled from her mouth in a mix of saliva and blood.

“To the….hells with...you... _ king _ . Your...end...will come...soon.” the woman growled through her broken jaw.

Weskar nodded. “You are resilient, I grant you.” he turned to the man. “Now to test your comrade’s resolve.” as the King stepped back for another punch, the door opened again, and a guard stepped inside, hoisting the Kings blade through the threshold with great effort.

“Your sword, milord.”

The King relieved his soldier of the burden and brought the sword to his side. “This should quicken things.”

The guard stood to attention at the door as Weskar brought his sword into a readied stance.

“I give you a final chance, girl. Speak your master’s name or die.”

The woman on the floor didn’t respond to the King, instead glaring up to her fellow assassin. “If you… speak a...single...word to thissss...hunk of meat...I will find you in the afterlife.... and eat you whole...I swear i-” The Kings sword swung down, lopping of her right leg completely. She screamed into the floor as the King wiped his blade on a rag.

“Take her to the room with the one who talked. Let her bleed out there.”

“At your command.”

Again the screams were muffled as the guard dragged the assassin through the door. Weskar was left alone with the final prisoner and kneeled to the ground before him.

“How long do you think it will take for your fellow to talk?” He asked. The assassin whimpered but said nothing. “Whichever of you speaks first will leave this world in ease, and shall go with my blessing.” The King gestured to trail of blood leading to the door. “I believe your comrade will speak quickly.”

The assassin’s lip trembled “I-i-i-it wasn’t a-anyone we knew. They… they never give us a n-name.”

“Where were you sent from?”

“A-a-a city in the south. Edgeport.”

“I know it. North of Aizl.”

“A-aye that’s it. Th-there’s a bar in oldtown. The Twin Shields. We get our jobs in a drop there.”

“Why were you targeting me?”

“I don’t know, i-it’s just a job. They offered gold...so much gold… cure for the wraith.”

“A cure?”

“It is a solution that is already known.”

The King lowered his eyebrows. “The only cure for the wraith is to eat another human being whole, and alive.”

“We...we were paid in gold and flesh to-”

“... **_My heart is steeled against the darkness._ ** ”

“W-w-wait no, please…”

“ **_My blood is the fire that lights the world.”_ **

“I have more, please I’ll tell you anything-”

**_“If I am not justified in taking this life, strike me down and turn my body to ash._ ** ”

The King’s sword moved in a flash of steel.


End file.
